Doppelgänger
by Reinstated
Summary: Murders, Sherlock. Gruesome murders of your doppelgangers litter the city of London's streets. Watch your back and your friends; you never know who he'll target next.  REVISION IN PROGRESS
1. Intro

**Okay, so this was a fill for a prompt on the BBC Sherlock Kink Meme.**

_**Prompt: Psychological Warfare/Creative Threats (Triggers for gore, torture and possible non-con although there isn't any non-con here; we're focusing on a different disturbing)**_

_**The Yard is trying to keep up with the latest string of serial murders. Each death is more grisly than the last. Each scene is carefully staged and clearly meant to be found. Each victim is an obvious near-doppelgänger for Sherlock Holmes, right down to the hair, coat, and scarf.**_

**Sherlock is called in on the case, of course. As the murders grow more heinous, John and Co. worry it's all an elaborate threat/promise of intent, and that the sicko responsible will aim for the real McCoy next.**

**Naturally, Sherlock dismisses such concerns. That is, until they start finding scenes featuring brutalized doubles for John.**

* * *

><p><strong>[CHAPTER REVISED]<strong>

* * *

><p>The first body is fresh, found near one of those old and abandoned buildings scheduled for demolition. Its limbs are bent into unnatural angles, its face pale and haunted, its eyes wide and gaunt. It was one of the homeless folk that found it, causing an expected fright indeed.<p>

By the time the police arrive to inspect it (it can't have just been the suicide it seemed like; there is pavement and there is the position of contact, but the face - the person - proves otherwise), everyone has avoided the area. The homeless and their friends swiftly keep away from the scene. Their thoughts are unspoken but their actions speak for everyone. No one wants to be there. No one has a reason for being there.

DI Lestrade is summoned to the scene, choosing to bring his own team. He's heard the news and wants to see it for himself. Everyone wants to see it for themselves, even if they don't want to be_ there_.

"Ah, Detective Inspector," a police man says, shaking his hand and nodding once. "Glad you're finally here. We could have ruled it a suicide, but someone called you. Something about it clearly not being a suicide, due to the victim involved."

There's the professionalism in his tone, but he's confused, as is Lestrade. The DI nods.

"I've already heard, but I really have to see him for myself."

The other man nods and walks away, the DI at his heels. They lift the yellow tape - barrier - and Lestrade's breath is almost knocked out of his lungs.

The man - no, just a body now, nothing but a bloody corpse - is splayed against the pavement. His long coattails had gathered up around his legs awkwardly (they flailed mid-flight and crumpled up as he fell), and his necks snaps at a gruesome angle. His eyes are open and very much wide; he had stared at the concrete as his body met it, embracing the impact and finally losing to hard gravity.

His body had bled but bleeds no longer; his head had bled but bleeds no longer, and his skin is as pale as dead men's skin go.

But that isn't what bothers Lestrade. It is the man's face. It is the thick lop of dark curls. It is the eyes - as glassy as they are. It is the height, the bulk of long and lean limbs. It is the familiar blue scarf and the familiar coat.

It is Sherlock Holmes.

Lestrade realizes that he has held his breath. He clears his throat and approaches with caution. It looks like Sherlock, it could be him, but he knows it isn't.

He kneels down on the pavement a few measly feet away. He stares at the body, long and hard, and then calls up his team. They respond quickly, and he turns his head to look over his shoulder.

"Sergeant Donovan? Anderson? Forensics?"

By the time Donovan arrives she's cut off mid-sentence. Anderson is at her side, looking a bit smug and disbelieving, but as soon as they see the body they hush themselves and exchange glances.

"Is that really him?" Donovan asks. Lestrade sighs and stands up, dusting the dirt off of his knees.

"Probably isn't." He walks off. "Usual procedures."

The two watch him walk away. For once, Anderson is silent.

* * *

><p>It's not a surprise, he thinks, as he approaches 221 Baker Street. This time it's not much of a case, but perhaps a warning. A questioning, even? What the bloody hell is Sherlock Holmes' doppelgänger doing with his body skewed about on a pavement?<p>

He knocks. The door opens quickly and he greets Mrs Hudson. She only smiles and greets him back, no questions, really. She's used to it. He won't bother telling her about the news; it would probably best not to upset the woman. He smiles and heads up the stairs. Before he even reaches the door to their flat, Sherlock's voice rings out.

"What is it now, Lestrade?"

Lestrade rolls his eyes and opens the door. John sits on his chair, typing away on his laptop. Sherlock adds resin to his violin bow. He doesn't even bother to look in Lestrade's direction. John quickly stops typing and looks up at the DI.

"Hello, Lestrade." He says. "Cup of tea?"

Lestrade feels like saying yes, but he doesn't. He lingers in the doorway and speaks before Sherlock can comment on it.

"No, thanks. I'll just be quick—"

"Out with it, then." Sherlock interrupts. John shoots him a glare but the man doesn't even blink. He lifts the bow and examines it closely.

"There's been an apparent suicide. Or murder, but nothing promising." He sees Sherlock open his mouth and continues on. "Let me finish, at least, all right? Well, nothing much peculiar about that. Except for the fact that the poor man looks like you. Same hair, same eyes, same height and build. He even wears your coat and scarf."

John blinks, looking a bit confused. He tilts his head to the side slightly and looks lost.

"You don't think someone is—"

Sherlock doesn't react. He carefully returns his violin to its case.

"Hm. I suppose it is a bit strange. Ever thought that someone could just be doing this to spite me?" He asks. Lestrade frowns.

"Perhaps," he places his hands into his pockets. "Well, I suppose that's it then. I'll be leaving now. Goodbye." He doesn't usually leave like this, but he does anyway. What's left for him to say?

"Goodbye, Lestrade." John says. He's still hunched over his knees, hands clasped together. Sherlock looks at him. They don't bother themselves with questioning Lestrade's uncharacteristic brief visit.

"I don't believe we should be worried. It could just be someone playing a joke. Harmless, for now."

John shrugs. He doesn't miss the ominous tone of Sherlock's words.

"One body isn't much proof." He gets up and retrieves his laptop from the table. "Let's just make sure that it isn't the real you out there, all right?"

Sherlock almost smiles. John isn't sure what to make of it.

* * *

><p>When the second body arrives, Lestrade storms up to 221B Baker Street. Sherlock and John greet him as they usually do, and this time, he urges them to come to the scene.<p>

"What is it now, Lestrade?" Sherlock asks. He looks at the man from his place on the couch. John arrives from the kitchen. "If you don't have any new cases, what use is it for you to be here?"

Lestrade chooses to ignore his last comment.

"There's a new body, Sherlock." He says. "Just like you, just like the last one. You should see him."

Sherlock raises a brow. He sits up slowly and John enters the room, looking a bit more curious.

"Really? What about him now?"

Lestrade lets out a breath of air. He shakes his head.

"Let's just see it, shall we?"

Sherlock gets up. He knows Lestrade wants to convince him of something, but he doesn't bother with it. It'll come out eventually.

"Hm. Two are better than one. Let's see if this is really worth our time. I have been getting bored again, after all."

Sherlock grabs his coat - shakes the collar up - and puts on his scarf. He opens the door and steps out. John and Lestrade follow but not too quickly.

They leave.

* * *

><p>This second one is a bit more threatening, perhaps, but not yet altogether disturbing for anyone. It's clearly a murder; that's something everyone seems to agree on. When Sherlock and John arrive at the scene with Lestrade, they're greeted by Donovan looking at them with her usual contempt.<p>

"Funny. Never knew the day when the Freak would be inspecting the crime scene of his own body. That's something new." She says, frowning. Sherlock takes a sniff and walks away.

"Strange how you're so fond of Anderson's deodorant."

John stifles a smile as they walk through. In a moment of a bizarre - but not unoriginal - scene, he finds the familiar reference comforting.

Sherlock immediately walks over to the corpse. It's head and facial features are indistinguishable in between the mess of brain matter, blood, dirt and bone. Its head is smashed in - great deal of damage with a blunt object or two - the objects swung numerous times until the face would be crushed and therefore rendered unable to give any identity - and its limbs are splayed as it lies on its back.

The same dark curly hair is coated in the remains of its head and in blood. What little of the scarf that is exposed is splattered dirty. The coat is darker and therefore not as easy to stain, but it's stained anyway.

Sherlock looks over his shoulder to see John staring at him as he pulls on gloves (to keep his hands clean, to not stain the evidence, to keep a limit on the blurring barrier in between examiner and amateur, perhaps).

He nods. John approaches and sits on his heels. His eyes scan the body as he proceeds to shift about, going on pressure points, checking for things, doing what he does best.

"Well," John says, standing up. "He obviously died from the bludgeoning. Although it could have been also blood loss, since it seems like some of the damage was done after his death. There's also a deep knife wound in his abdomen. The blade twisted as it entered his body, causing more damage. Time of death could be estimated to have been in between yesterday afternoon and early evening."

He pauses. "Bruising on the neck suggests attempted strangulation or perhaps just grabbing him by the throat and the victim tried to claw the unwelcome arms off."

Sherlock mumbles something incoherent. He looks around and scans the area quietly.

"You're looking for someone who knows this place well, or would be able to hide quickly. He's large and tall, strong enough. There's an accomplice - perhaps a shorter man but one just as strong or nearly - and they both had long and large blunt objects, mostly bats or something similar. The victim's wallet is missing so it could be a robbery, but certainly not. He's got an expensive phone in his front coat pocket; the attackers should have seen it, so it's a faked robbery. The bottom of his shoes suggest that he's been in a muddy or at least a wet and dirty area recently; it's different from the usual roads of London, but not too different from usual clandestine locations. And the knife wound suggests that it was done sneakily, and he, of course, tried to get away. That explains the bruising on his throat. Also, there are traces of a white powder on the inside pockets of his coat, near the phone. He's smuggled something since it's hidden near his chest and also near his phone which is obviously important to him, with the way he's handled it."

Sherlock stops speaking and looks at his audience. Among them is John, - always, John - Lestrade who looks the same as always, and a disgruntled Donovan and Anderson. Sherlock removes his gloves and places his hand in his pocket. He walks away and quickly leaves the gloves in Anderson's hands. The man grimaces as they hit him flat in the chest.

"You're looking for a gang, most probably. He must have stolen something or refused to pay a debt. I don't particularly feel like tracking them down for you." Sherlock yawns. "Boring."

* * *

><p>The third body isn't as boring.<p> 


	2. I

**Guess which wonderful Sherlock fanfic inspired the murder weapon?**

* * *

><p>They find the third body unceremoniously dumped into a trash bin.<p>

As soon as the cops come, it seems as if the dark alleyway has been cleared empty. There's nothing but the buzzing of flies and the smell of damp concrete together with the week's garbage. There are no rats, no stray dogs, no stray cats. There are just old flies and a rotting body. The shadows hide nothing; in fact, the emptiness of the area seems to send a chill through the air.

The corpse isn't even stuffed and hidden properly. Its limbs dangle precariously from the bin and its face is buried deep into the other contents of a black trash bag. Its body twists as it squeezes into the small space of dirty metal that smells of rotting organic material, very faint shampoo, the damp and in general - garbage.

The smell hits everyone first. As soon as the first man opens up the bin to reveal the body, everyone reels back as the odor hits their noses. The flies buzz about - some go away only to circle heads and return to the corpse - and the men swat at them uselessly, gloved hands and masked noses doing nothing much to repel the flies and the smell of death.

"Oh, god, that smells terrible," DI Lestrade coughs. He holds a hand to his nose and squints his eyes. No one really wants to go near. He doesn't want to either.

They open up the bag. The body is dressed in expensive clothing: leather shoes, designer slacks, a long dark coat and a familiar blue scarf tucked in carefully. The victim's hair consists of long and dark curls that have been cut up angrily, but with enough precision to make it look as if it was done deliberately.

Lestrade coughs again. His eyes seem to water, but he backs away and almost sighs.

He doesn't linger. The wounds glare at him from their places on the victim's paling skin.

* * *

><p>"There's a third body," Lestrade says, receiving a mug of tea from John. He thanks the man and resumes speaking. "Found in the dumpster pretty near one of our major roads. He's been all cut up - gashes and cuts all over his face and body - and guess what he looks like?"<p>

Sherlock doesn't look up from his microscope. Instead, he adjusts the slide and gives an unconvinced grunt.

"Three bodies," John mutters, taking a seat on his armchair. "Three bodies with the same face. Don't you think that this is something you should be worried about, Sherlock?" He looks at the detective but doesn't receive a look in return.

Lestrade puffs out a breath of air.

"The body was dumped into a rubbish bin not very neatly, right near a public road where lots of people pass every day. It was meant to be found, Sherlock."

Sherlock looks up from his microscope. He turns his head and looks at Lestrade in the eye.

"You've come in early enough. We've got someone who wants attention. Or perhaps a moronic first-time murderer. We'll see."

He's gone out the door with his scarf and coat by the time Lestrade places the mug down on an empty spot on the table in front of him, and hailing a taxi cab by the time John and Lestrade catch him.

* * *

><p>"The Freak's here again?" Donovan asks as soon as Sherlock appears. Lestrade shoots her a look but the detective ignores her and strides over to the body wordlessly.<p>

"Try not to stain the crime scene more than-" Anderson begins, but Sherlock interrupts him with a quick quip that promptly makes the man shut his mouth. John walks by, wondering what he could have said, but doesn't linger on it.

The body has been rolled onto a sheet. It still lies on the sidewalk - probably just in case they find some kind of evidence in the garbage cans, and even its garbage bag lies nearby - face-up. Another sheet covers its body and flies buzz about. Every now and then someone shoos them away, but they won't leave.

Sherlock pulls on his gloves and slowly peels the sheet back to reveal the corpse. John flinches. At least there aren't any maggots in it yet; he's surprised they didn't arrive any sooner since the body _was_ found in the garbage cans.

The body's hair is just like Sherlock's - a thick head of dark curls. The only difference is that almost half of his the hair on his head has been stripped away, cut off furiously with a pair of scissors, perhaps. His face and hands are the only parts of his body wherein skin is exposed, and it's gruesome.

Large gashes decorate his skin. They're deep and wide as they swirl about, tracing angry slashes on his face. His nose looks broken and his lips are sliced into two. A punctured eye stares up at the blue sky, its broken surface filling the space in between his eyelids.

The hands also contain cuts, although not as deep. They're numerous but smaller, although it looks as though more dirt has entered them. They sit there, stiff against the body's sides and cold fingers frozen in place, held together by brittle bone and torn flesh.

Sherlock kneels down. He keeps his coat away from the body as much as possible, but soon enough there is nothing but his deductions and observations. A minute passes and he starts prodding the body none-too-gently. He runs a gloved finger against a single gash and then shuffles around for a bit more. John thinks he sees Sherlock pocketing something, but it could just be him moving his coat so it won't come into contact with the foul-smelling body.

He then opens the garbage bag that the body came in, and then closes it again after surveying the contents.

"John," Sherlock's voice calls out. John comes forward. "What do you think caused these wounds?"

John frowns as he makes his own deductions.

"Something long and sharp, maybe thin? Certainly not surgical scissors, and I can't think of any medical tool that could cut someone open like that. It lacks the precision." He pauses. "However, maybe an ordinary blade did it?"

Sherlock almost smiles.

"Good job, John," he says, standing up and inspecting the body from above one last time. "I wonder if you've noticed, though - probably not. But if you did, you must have noticed that this is a public place where lots of people wander round. It would be natural to have salons and barber shops around, wouldn't it? The slashes suggest some sort of object that would function in the same way as scissors do. However, they aren't straight, so we don't need an ordinary pair. We need a specialized pair, and I believe that hairdressers would be the first and most logical place to start from."

John looks at him. Sherlock faces his friend and removes his gloves.

"Just as I said before: we either have a man who wants attention or someone who is just horribly clumsy." Sherlock shakes his head. "Hopefully, we have the former. This will be interesting. He surely wouldn't be caught so easily."

John removes his gloves as well and follows Sherlock as they exit the scene. They pass Lestrade who speaks to someone else, perhaps also from Scotland Yard. John and he make eye contact, and the unspoken agreements are already made.

Take care. Don't get killed. Hopefully get back in time to do some analyses, but knowing Sherlock that wouldn't happen.

"You already know which hairdresser to go to?" John asks. They walk briskly along the sidewalk. A lot of people really are around. John wonders how the murderer could have smuggled the body up into the garbage bins. "There are lots of them around here. What did you see?"

Sherlock turns sharply and John almost bumps into someone as he's caught off guard. They - well, Sherlock pushes the door open and John follows - promptly enter the first establishment that they face.

It's a small hair salon with a few customers. The workers look up at the noisy entrance and John feels a little bit embarrassed. Everyone's having an ordinary day, and they bust in looking demanding. Soon enough, everyone returns to their work.

A woman approaches them with a smile.

"What would you like, sir?"

Sherlock looks down on her with contempt. He then looks at shelves that contain different products for sale and asks, "You sell these? Only your shop?"

The woman nods. "Yes. Family makes them, and they work. So, we sell them and our customers tend to buy them too. Want to try some, perhaps?"

Sherlock doesn't answer for a while as he scans the customers and the workers. John knows that he's deducing every single one of them; there's no doubt. The woman waits patiently, her hands clasped together in front of her and her smile looking more and more awkward.

"Do a lot of people buy your products?" he asks.

"Well, usually the same people. It's not something we can just rely on alone."

"No one new?"

The woman frowns. "I'm sorry, why are you asking this?"

Sherlock doesn't answer her question. "Did anyone new - not a usual customer - come in and buy one of your products?" He takes a small step forward. The woman looks a bit apprehended, but no one pays them much attention. The sound of a blow dryer comes on.

The woman doesn't reply. Sherlock lets out an exasperated sigh and removes something from his pocket. John almost rolls his eyes, as if to say: "I can't believe you've nicked some evidence again, Sherlock."

The woman stares at the paper in Sherlock's hand. He waves it around and she frowns.

"Does this look familiar to you?" he hisses. The woman nods.

"Of course. It's a receipt for one of our products, although it smells a bit... filthy."

John can't help but hope that no one else smells the stench of garbage. It clings onto the receipt and he wishes that Sherlock stop waving it around.

"Did a stranger buy this recently?" he asks her. She looks irritated, ready to force them to leave. Because of this, she looks at the receipt and thinks for a bit.

"I handle the counter so I usually know the people who buy. I mean, they're all regulars." She smiles. "But, yes, I think I remember. A man bought this from us without even having his hair cut. He just got it and swooped out."

John asks, "Can you describe him?"

"Tall. Dark hair. I can't remember much. He was wearing a long coat."

Sherlock thins out his lips. There's a pause as he scans the room once more.

"Those scissors," he points out. The woman looks in the direction of the customers and her employees. "Two of the workers use different scissors. Different blades and a slightly different reflection of light."

John traces Sherlock's vision. Sure enough, two of the hairdressers cut with different blades. Their customers - both curly haired women - seem unsuspecting of the two men in front.

The woman hesitates for a bit.

"Yes," she answers. "They're very expensive and specialized. Molybdenum steel, in fact... Although we usually use it for customers with curly hair or those who want extremely specific haircuts that only the Molybdenum can provide." She looks to be on edge. "Is there something wrong?"

Sherlock looks at John. John looks at him, a bit confused.

"I need your manager. And I need to inspect a pair. Are they common in hair salons?" Sherlock asks. John tries to look apologetic, maybe to convince the woman to let him inspect a pair - it could be important, and he almost believes that he knows the reason why - but she's still hesitating.

"_I_ am the manager," the woman says. She looks a bit affronted. "I own this place, too."

John speaks softly.

"We're... sorry. But can we really just inspect a pair? You can even watch us if you're that afraid we'll run off with them." He smiles. "It's important. We'll be careful. Surely."

The manager shifts her weight on her feet. Sherlock looks down on her with half-lidded eyes and then spins around to watch the hairdressers again.

"No, no, no." He mutters. The manager steps back for a bit; she clearly has more important matters to attend to. But she's afraid to let Sherlock out of her sight, afraid that he'll end up destroying the establishment or scaring away the customers.

Sherlock's eyes narrow as he watches a satisfied woman promptly approach them. Her smile is wide; she's proud obviously. Her hair is short and smells faintly of new shampoo and whatever product they put - he doesn't care about women's hair products, not at all.

The manager's attention focuses on the woman. Money and receipts are exchanged. There's a mechanical wave and mechanical smile of goodbye. As soon as the woman leaves, the manager avoids eye contact with the two men in front of her. She opens up the money drawer and carefully inserts the payment inside. Her hands move quickly to open up a book - a record - and she grabs a pen and quickly writes down in scrawl the payment received.

"What is it, then?" she asks. Her frown is now visible. "If you're here to just question us, then don't bother-"

Sherlock steps forward. He intimidates her for a second, but she achieves a cold demeanor.

"Where were you last night?" he asks, voice firm but low. She looks up at him, her coldness fading away into fear. She won't let it conquer her, John can tell, but she's afraid. He's tall and no one notices them, even in the busyness of the area.

"I-why?" she asks.

"Where were you last night?" Sherlock repeats. "You haven't been able to cover it up neatly. Your make-up reveals dark bags under your eyes that suggest lack of sleep. It could have been for several nights, or a single night of barely any sleep when you usually get enough could also do it. Where were you last night? What were you doing?"

The manager doesn't answer.

"You're left handed." Sherlock looks over his shoulder and catches John's attention. "She's left-handed and possessive of her scissors - property. Molybdenum, she says. Very expensive, and probably very strong. Its convex blade and razor sharp edges, if handled by someone with her dominant hand, would have been able to create those gashes on the body in such a way. The gashes seem to be done from behind - right to left - and the few ones in front generally lead to the left direction. Her hands seem stable enough. She's of more than average height but not too tall, and the fact that she's a hairdresser with expert knowledge on the usage of these blades can be enough proof. Now," he turns to face her. She is shocked. "Your alibi? Proof that it wasn't you? We don't have much evidence, barely any at all. You say that no one else has these types of blades. It could be false, but what is your alibi?"

John thinks that Sherlock's jumping to conclusions - of course not, probably. He probably has something else in his head that he hasn't voiced out yet, but surely, not just this?

"The body was dumped into the rubbish bins near this street. It was half-hazardly shoved into a garbage bag that also contained empty bottles of your products for sale. You couldn't have been that clumsy, could you? We have everything, but also not everything. It doesn't make sense. Were you framed?" He pauses. "Or is this all part of your plan?"

The manager swallows and takes a step back. Her lower back hits the edge of the counter and she flinches, steadying herself. The record book slides away.

"I was doing overtime: counting the day's pay, finishing up the checkbook, making sure that all of our things were in place. I went home late, yes, because I had to cover for one of our sick workers, but I didn't go near our rubbish bins that night. The day before they had already collected the garbage, so we didn't need to empty out the bins at back yet."

"Is your sick man still on leave?"

She shakes her head. "He's over there - man with the blond hair."

His eyes lower to the scarf on her neck. It's tousled.

"Your scarf," he says. "Is done not neatly. You were in a rush to get here. And it's not even noon."

"I overslept," she squeaks. "And I was far from here-"

"You wouldn't hold your establishment too far from your home."

"I-I slept over."

He gives her a once over - gaze lingering on her face and neck - before deciding to turn around. He suddenly shakes his head and turns away, prompting John to follow. They exit the hairdresser's before John asks him.

"Sherlock," John begins. "What _was_ that?"

"She was on edge," Sherlock replies. "I had to get it out of her. I had to know what she would say for herself."

John frowns. "But what about leaving just like that? If you think that the scissors were the murder weapon, then how-"

They cross the street. Signs blink about, signalling this way and that. John licks his lips.

"Why did you just leave like that?"

"She's not the killer," Sherlock replies. "She's just an adulterer; nothing interesting in that. She could be the killer, but we don't have proof for that. Besides, she doesn't seem to be hiding anything. If she wanted to be found she would give us hints. It would be boring if she just let things be like this and act so innocent in front of the man with the idea. If she wanted a chance of getting caught, she wouldn't act like that."

John frowns.

"What if she really was clumsy?" He asks.

"Then she isn't worth our time." He replies. "I don't deal with amateurs."

"But we know the murder weapon now," John quips.

"The murderer was probably going to frame her if evidence pointed out to her. Everyone else in the shop was right-handed, probably not even ambidextrous. The slashes on the body were made by a left-handed person, or at least someone ambidextrous - but using his left hand."

"No motive?" John asks. Sherlock grumbles.

"We need more evidence. We need to scout the area. Find possible rivals - both of the establishment and that of the woman herself. We need to know the hairdressers, too, perhaps. It might help."

They stop walking. Sherlock narrows his eyes.

"But the murderer is good, so far. He's hidden his trail. He's making all the evidence point to a clumsy worker of an obvious shop. Now, if we left the idiotic police force to themselves, they would be arresting all the wrong people. The real killer, most definitely, is hiding in plain sight. He hauled that body there without being seen. The place tends to be full of people. How did he manage that?"

John sighs. It's almost noon and he feels the familiar surge of hunger.

"Will you be returning to the crime scene?"

Sherlock's eyes flitter left and right, deducing hundreds of people at the same time.

"Yes."

"What if it's a serial killer?" John offers. "He's targeting your doppelgangers. Ever thought of that? Be careful, Sherlock."

Sherlock scoffs.

"Don't believe that nonsense. I'm disappointed in you, John."

"Why have these three victims all looked like you so far?"

"I solved the second one. The first is ruled suicide."

"They haven't caught them yet,"

Sherlock looks at his friend in the eye. John stares back.

"You can't be serious."

"I am, Sherlock."

* * *

><p>The next day, Sherlock arrives home to find John eating breakfast. The latter opens his mouth to ask where the hell Sherlock has been, but before he can even speak Sherlock's phone rings.<p>

The message is from Lestrade.

_There's a fourth body._


	3. will

**All of those new reviews inspired me. :) Thank you for all of your kind words. I apologize for the lack of knowledge for British carpenters and workers of that sort, so I used what I only know.**

* * *

><p>The scream of a street sweeper signals the discovery of the fourth body.<p>

* * *

><p>Sherlock and John stride over to the crime scene. The air grows cold as the middle of autumn draws near, the first few days suddenly bringing a slight chill. John shoves his hands into his pockets and Sherlock walks over, his collar up as usual.<p>

Lestrade has his arms crossed over his chest. When he meets their eyes - first John's, then Sherlock's - he doesn't speak up, at least, not brightly. He only nods and leads them to the scene, further into the mess of road blockages, men and women, and yellow tape.

Anderson is there. He pops up from behind a makeshift wall made out of plywood. He grimaces and shoots Sherlock a disgusted look.

"Can't believe there's another one. When will the real you be next?"

John shoots him a deathly glare. Lestrade shouts, "Anderson! You're dismissed!"

Sherlock looks forward without an expression. He doesn't look the least perturbed.

"So," John says. "Is this one related to the others?"

"I believe that we've really got a serial killer on the loose. You haven't caught the criminal yet, have you?" Lestrade asks - replies, perhaps - and looks at Sherlock. Sherlock doesn't look back at him but he stands up straighter and lifts the police tape high over his head.

"It's only been a day. Things are more complicated than they first seemed. But if you are correct, and if this really is a serial killer, then perhaps we can catch him sooner. The fact that almost all of the men around here seem tense is proof that there's something unusual about this particular murder. If it's different, then it might be harder for us to catch him, and if we do catch him then perhaps we catch the previous killer, too."

Sherlock pauses. "But that only applies if the previous killer and this one is the same person. Otherwise, it is useless to continue to pursue that notion. Murders are utterly common - although exciting ones aren't always so - and the police force are asking more and more from me in shorter amounts of time. Either you're dumbing down-"

Lestrade doesn't react.

"-or we've got someone who wants us to play his game, and tries to get our attention by using my own image as the face of his victims. None of them actually had any identity, did they? The second body had a phone but it looked barely used, although it was meant to be treasured judging by its proximity by him. He didn't have a wallet and there was no identification, either."

John speaks. "Killing off John Does should be enough proof, Sherlock. Why would the killer target nameless men that look like Sherlock Holmes? So far, all except these last two have been officially solved, but..." He pauses as they finally arrive to the scene of the body.

"Try to pick your jaw back up, John." Sherlock says gruffly. "That's not me up there."

John closes his mouth. He swallows.

The fourth victim is nailed to the flimsy wall of a building under construction. That's the simplest answer John has for the situation. The exact details, however, are a bit more graphical.

He lies there, his arms to his sides and his palms facing outward. His head lolls upwards and his legs are stretched apart as the body looks like it offers itself to the heavens. It might be an attempt at crucifixion, but it's too crude - too many nails in the wrong places, too many nails in general - too cruel and too painful at that.

He could have died instantly. He could have suffered. John doesn't dwell on those thoughts.

But he dwells on the sight in front of him. He dwells, even if he doesn't want to. He dwells because he can't take his eyes away from the scene, no matter how much his brain tells him to. His heart tells him to, perhaps, but there is sick fascination together with the fear and the disgust.

(And nights later he will wake up entangled in sweaty sheets and wake to the sound of London's early-morning vehicles. He will wake in the darkness, his breath unsteady and hitching, as he realizes that a corpse nailed to a wall has made its way to his dreams of Afghanistan, carefully weaving the image of itself into the mess of bullets and dirt and tired and bleeding men.)

The corpse is nailed to the wall of plywood. His head lolls upwards, eyes gouged out by rusty nails. An even bigger nail impales his throat and forces his chin upwards, perhaps saving the people down below from the view of his eyes - eyes that aren't even capable of being called eyes anymore. More iron pegs attach themselves to the body. In each entrance there are gaping wounds and dried blood. And in each entrance John sees nothing but a man tearing Sherlock apart with roaring laughter, the detective's insides decorating the killer's face. There are shadows and there is the ignorant population - ignorant of the death of his friend at the hands of a man who wants nothing but to play this deadly game.

Dust from London's air burrows into the entrances. The insects will come, soon enough, John knows, but perhaps it's still too early.

But the nails - they're everywhere.

They're in his arms and hands (palms, wrists, elbows, forearms, biceps); they're in his shoulders and in his torso (chest, right above the collarbone, right where his solar plexus is located, abdomen, sides, lower stomach and god-forbid, one just might be staking him through the_ heart _and all of its chambers); they're in his legs and feet (knee joints, ankle joints and metatarsal spaces); they're even going through his head.

John takes in a deep breath. He carefully turns his head to Sherlock. The man has already finished deducing, it seems. Lestrade warms his hands.

"We do have a loud one." Sherlock says finally. He looks at John, and then at Lestrade.

"He was held in place and then nailed up there. This is a building under construction, after all, so there are many ledges and shafts were one could stand. But someone usually keeps watch, so our question is how the killer managed to do all of this under broad daylight or under some kind of surveillance during the night."

Lestrade shifts his weight on his feet.

"We've already questioned the workers. No one heard or saw anything. There are a few suspicious men, but they're also currently under investigation. Nothing promising, though." His jaw tightens. "I'm more disturbed by the fact that these murders are becoming more and more bold."

"A few men on our team are making a steady lift so they can inspect the body from up there. No one's found one, though, or finished making one." Lestrade says.

"Incompetent," John hears Sherlock mutter. They enter. Lestrade sighs loudly and calls out but they don't hear him, don't listen.

Bags of sand and concrete are littered about. Every now and then John moves to step over upturned blocks. Miscellaneous working tools are also occupying each and every corner. It's almost as if no one bothered to pick the things back up.

It does make a bit of sense, though, he realizes. They were probably sent away without a moment's notice (except that the notice was the corpse, nailed up on their wall).

Sherlock rounds a corner and grabs an unsteady plank leaning against the wall. John frowns and settles down beside him.

"What are you doing?" he asks. "If you think that you can make your own elevator then I believe you should reconsider."

Sherlock huffs. "I'm looking for the one that the workers used, John, not making one of my own. It might be more essential to finding out how the murderer did it. We can get a better view from up there, and hopefully we'll be sharing the killer's view, too."

John almost shivers. He blames it on the cold.

His nerves haven't settled in yet.

"Aren't elevator shafts usually up on the building walls and not on the makeshift plywood ones?" John asks. Sherlock looks around.

"We might have a different case."

They stalk around the perimeter of the building. A few meters away they do find it: the edge of a nearly-smashed lift peeking just from behind another stray plank. They haul it up and do a few physical checks - nothing looks too wrong about it; it could work - before John steadies it with his hands and takes in a deep breath.

He looks up at Sherlock.

"Ready to test it out?"

Sherlock nods. They dump one bag of sand onto the platform and slowly pull at the strings. The lift croaks and the ropes squeak. All this while the bag of sand dangles dangerously and the platform swings violently, going to and fro even as they stand there with the slow tugging. The wind picks up and John frowns as he tugs at the ropes a bit more. Sherlock watches.

Soon enough, the lift vanishes into a flatter and smaller version of its original size once it reaches a high enough spot in the sky. They decide to bring it down. As soon as the platform hits the ground it jolts and they haul the sandbag out.

Sherlock steps into the platform. His legs swing over the low railings and he balances himself as John pulls at the ropes tightly. It swings as it creakily lifts off, and Sherlock manages to balance as he's lifted up. John gets smaller, but he's pulling and he's pulling, and soon enough Sherlock can't see anything but his outline anymore - still pulling at a safe but boringly slow pace.

John realizes that the rope has come to an end. He stops pulling and holds the rope tightly in his hands to support Sherlock. The man on the lift looks around for a bit before - John gapes in horror - leaping and landing on a makeshift ledge near the flimsy plywood wall. He stumbles around for a bit before standing on his feet and climbing up until he's gone and out of John's sight.

He holds the rope taut. Sherlock disappears into the horizon of wall and sky.

* * *

><p>Time passes.<p>

* * *

><p>John is thankful when Sherlock finally lumbers onto the lift and he quickly lowers him. John's almost angry that it took him long, but he decides that there's nothing he can do about it. One of them had to hold the rope, and they certainly couldn't both fit into the lift.<p>

He wonders how Sherlock even managed to inspect the body from simply scaling the wall. He know Sherlock is capable of some interesting things, but he really doesn't know what he's missed.

"Nails are most definitely concrete nails," Sherlock says breathlessly. He pats down his coat. "They were hammered down roughly but precisely. What the police haven't realized is that there are more injuries than those sustained from the nails themselves. The victim looks like he was hammered in the side of the head and in the torso before he was nailed down."

John rubs his hands together.

"Any other clues?"

Sherlock puts his hands into his pockets. "I'm sure that this was an inside job. How else was anyone able to nail someone to the wall and get away with it so easily? If the police can't find the suspect their usual way-" Sherlock rolls his eyes. "-Then we have to go around and find more evidence ourselves as we usually do."

"It's not like the murderer will just leave his evidence around." John says. "I think we'll need something more specific, Sherlock."

Sherlock looks at him.

* * *

><p>John almost trips over an extra material for the scaffolding that lies on the ground. He checks his pant leg - at least it's not ripped - and looks around. Sherlock is gone again, and he shakes his head.<p>

"Murderers don't just leave their murder weapons around for everyone to find," he mutters, not mostly to himself. It's not like anyone else will hear him, anyway. "I don't understand why-"

He moves and accidentally knocks over a bucket. John takes a deep sigh and gets down, bending his knees, to try and move the bucket upright again.

He grabs the pail by its handle and sets it back down. The water it holds leaks onto the muddied ground, and it forms a pool around a dirty hammer. John moves to get the hammer and return it to its place in the bucket when his brain finally catches up to his eyes and processes the appearance of the liquid.

The water mixes with a dark substance that looks like blood. The hammer does in fact look dried; it contains dried blood that slowly swirls about in the muddy mess that lies beneath it. He can even see some rust particles settling down at the bottom of the bucket, sticking to the metal and dancing beneath the water.

"Sherlock!" he calls out.

Thin blood pools around the hammer. He doesn't touch it.

* * *

><p>"Oh, we've certainly got someone who wants attention. Now, what will he do to get more? What will he do to steer us into his arms? This is an interesting turn of events..."<p>

"What if you take fingerprint samples? Would they all be washed away? The hammer's head was the one in the water. The handle was up in the air, nice and dry."

"No. It would be contaminated by now, John. I suppose lots of people have held it, and we won't know which fingerprints belong to the killer. For all we know, someone could have knocked it over recently as well and accidentally held it. No, we need something else. And besides, these types of thing aren't accurate for fingerprint tests."

"You think that another piece of evidence will turn up?"

"No idea. But we have already determined the cause of death. We have a plausible reason. We have the weapon used. We simply need the _murderer._"

"Perhaps we should look into the interviews?"

"I'll procure a list of the workers. You go ahead and talk to them while I do some more research."

"...Don't get yourself killed."

"Of course not, John."

* * *

><p>There were five men on duty that night. More than ten were given permission to access the work area at any time of the day and night, as long as they provided ID. But only five men were accounted for being at the site during the estimated time of the crime.<p>

John sighs as he prepares to knock on the door of the first man.

The man's apartment is small and old. The door opens to reveal a woman - tired and middle-aged, John can tell - who looks at him with surprise.

"Oh, hello," she says. "Are you looking for something?"

John tries to smile.

"May I speak with Mr Jeffrey Garret?"

The home is not unusual. There are two kids; he can hear them laughing from upstairs. The woman is Mrs Garret, and she constantly looks afraid. She reminds John of a mouse.

Mr Garret looks everything like a family man. His build is big and stocky, but he is of average height. His hands don't shake but they contain numerous signs of hard work and tiredness. The lines on his face only become more obvious as John asks about the night of the crime.

"Oh," he says, leaning back against the old sofa in their living room. "I was guarding the area but I really didn't notice anyone else come in except for the other four who signed in with their ID's. I wasn't sleepy either; I was alert. The other workers were drilling and the noise was terrible, especially at night when everything's dead quiet."

Mrs Garret brews something in the kitchen. The kettle whistles.

"How do you think that the killer got up and hammered the victim onto the wall?" John asks. Garret looks uneasy.

"I-I don't know. Very gruesome... Only a cruel man would do that." He sighs. "There are lifts and scaffolding. He could have used them, although carrying a dead weight on his back would be difficult - very difficult. If the man was still conscious then the killer would have even more trouble to get up." Garret fiddles his thumbs. "I've never been up on any of the lifts or scaffolding, but I have to tell you that sometimes those workers are like monkeys, really. I can't get up - I'm frightened of heights - but even though it looks impossible from below it's very much possible."

John licks his lips.

"Do people disappear from ground view if they go over the wall?"

Garret nods. "Yes. There's a ledge that you can use as a pathway. I've seen some of the workers pass on it when they need to scale the building without use of a lift."

"You think that the killer could have nailed the man onto the wall because he was on the ledge?"

"You don't make much noise if you're up there, although I'm sure nailing a man would get a noise out."

"And were you alone or with anyone during this?"

"I was watching over the drillers. My post was right beside where they were."

John nods.

"Thank you, Mr Garret."

The guard stands up as they shake hands. He looks at John in the eye fearfully.

"I'm sorry I couldn't help," he says. "I hope you find him - the killer - though."

"No," John replies. "You've helped."

"And I'm not guilty."

"No."

The children upstairs start laughing boisterously. He catches Mrs Garret watching them from the kitchen.

* * *

><p>The second man is one of the workers. He lives with his mother and sister. John hears the mother's coughing from the room beside the kitchen and sees the sister exiting another.<p>

The man opens the door. John introduces himself and asks for an interview. The man hesitates but says yes.

"Mr Gorski, what were you doing during the night?" John asks, settling down on a large armchair. Gorski looks up at him, wary of his movements. His sister exits a room and makes eye contact, but he glares at her as if to tell her to go away. She does.

"I was taking measurements so that the drillers could get it all right." He says. "But I was tired, and it was dark so my eyes were hurting, so I don't know if I got the measurements right."

John nods once, but too quickly.

"All right, um, noticed anything strange? Noises from the plywood wall? Someone sneaking off?"

Gorski shrugs.

"I might have fallen asleep... But I don't remember anything strange. Although one of the blokes manning the drills seemed unreasonably angry. Then again, it was almost midnight. Maybe he just wanted to go home."

"You were in everyone's view when you fell asleep?"

"When I woke up, they were arguing. Right in front of me. The guard was watching them, too."

"The guard never left his spot?"

"No," Gorski shakes his head. "He looked tired. He doesn't usually make the whole trip around the building. He just watches over the workers and makes sure that no one enters the main entrance."

"Main entrance?"

"There's one out back but it's real far from all the equipment and sand. We don't want anyone stealing anything. It's been sealed off, though. Ever since they decided that they wanted some kind of garden for the building grounds."

* * *

><p>The third man looks particularly disturbed.<p>

He lives alone in his apartment. The woman at the reception counter barely glances at John as he asks which one is his. She points him the right directions without taking her eyes off of a magazine.

Alban invites John over for tea. He looks jittery and always looks left and right, as if paranoid. John takes his usual bout of questions.

"Where were you at the night?"

"I was with the drillers," Alban replies, sipping tea slowly. "We barely got any work done, though. But don't tell our superiors that. Besides, it was their fault. They weren't listening to me."

"I heard that you were arguing. What was that about?"

Alban snorts. "They were drilling in the wrong place. Wouldn't turn the damn thing off. Said they couldn't hear me over the noise but they were probably ignoring me on purpose. I told them off and tried to make them back off and restart it, but everyone except Cross ignored me. Well, one of them fell asleep. The other pissed me off. They all think I'm crazy. I'm not; I'm just doing my job."

John raises a brow. He taps his pen against his notepad.

"Timothy Cross? What did he think?"

"He agreed with me and decided to move the drill a few more feet to the right. Nice guy. Listens to me for once. Doesn't call me loony."

"So, did you see him do anything suspicious? Did you see anyone do anything suspicious? And while we're at it, did the security guard, Groski, Cross, you or the other man leave during the night when they weren't supposed to?"

Alban doesn't even pause to think.

"Nope. We were arguing for at least an hour. Groski fell asleep - I think he's narcotic, that's what you call them, right?" John tries to interrupt with an "Actually, it's narcoleptic-" but he's cut off before he can begin. Alban continues. "And anyway, everyone was too tired and pissed with each other to actually get any work done."

"You think that it would be possible for someone to sneak a body up and nail him to the plywood wall while you were arguing? And that perhaps they passed through the back?"

"They couldn't have passed from the back. We were in the way of the back. We'd have noticed." Alban pauses. "Although, yeah, someone could have gone up the ledge and brought an unconscious man with him. But he would be heavy and maybe we'd have heard the hammering."

"Even with your arguing and the sound of the drill?"

Alban frowns. "Come to think of it, yeah. Maybe we wouldn't notice."

* * *

><p>Timothy Cross isn't home.<p>

* * *

><p>The last man, Page, has a wife but no children.<p>

He's tall and intimidating. He looks to be always brooding. His wife is small but her words are clipped and her expressions match her husband's. John thinks that he's capable of carrying a body up and hammering him onto a plywood wall. He's bigger than all the other men, and he looks leaner, still.

"So, where were you on the night of the crime?"

"We were supposed to be drilling, but that loon Alban was arguing with me and saying that we had to drill a couple of feet to the right. Nutcase. Groski measured them. I trust him and his measurements."

John clears his throat.

"Yes, well, did you leave the others any time during the night? Did anyone ever leave? And did you not see or hear anything suspicious?"

Page answers gruffly. "I was stuck arguing with those idiots all night. Didn't get anything done." He sniffs. "No one left, if that's what you mean. Everyone was stuck with us."

"'Stuck'"? John asks.

"Stuck," Page repeats. "Can't leave. You have to stay until your shift is over. We had to, at least."

"You think it could be possible to have a man haul up another body and nail him to the wall?"

Page nods. John hesitates before asking a newly formed question.

"And if it's possible, who would you suspect out of the five of you in there?"

"I would probably be most capable," Page replies. "But I didn't do it."

"Who do you think did, speaking theoretically?"

Page is quiet.

"No one," he says. "Groski was asleep. He's always too tired. Garret's got two kids on the line; he wouldn't risk it. Alban's a madman but he doesn't have the heart unless he suddenly turned into a killer overnight. Cross is suspicious, but I don't think he'd do it."

John thanks him.

* * *

><p>"All right, Sherlock," John begins as he removes his notepad from his pocket. Sherlock lies on the couch, his eyes closed and his fingers steepled together. "I've interviewed everyone except Cross. He isn't home. I found out that-"<p>

"John," Sherlock interrupts. "We're returning to the crime scene."

"...All right?"

John tucks the notepad back into his pocket. He thinks that maybe he can share the information with Sherlock on their way or as soon as they reach their destination.

His information ends up having to wait.

* * *

><p>They arrive back at the scene. Sherlock walks around in circles, his hands clasped behind his back as he makes his observations. John looks around, confused. There are no more police officers, no more workers. There is nothing but the empty building and the equipment and Sherlock and John. Even the body has been removed, each rusty nail accounted for.<p>

Sherlock makes sweeping motions and gestures with his arms. He then stops and then stays quiet. John doesn't hear him speak at all. He is baffled, John knows. He is baffled, and it scares John, scares him because it is quiet and empty and Sherlock _doesn't_ _know_.

And neither does John.

John rubs his eyes and turns around, looking over into the distance. He shoves his hands into his pockets and takes a short walk.

He's stooped over by the time he realizes that he's gone almost halfway to the other end of the building. John stands up straighter and decides to head back. As he turns, he hits a bag of sand and it falls in front of his feet, leaking contents.

John sighs tiredly and moves the bag away. Something brushes his ear and he freezes in place.

He turns around quickly - and can't tell whether he just saw a flash of an eerily white grin or if it was just a bird, another bird of many, or perhaps an illusion created by his paranoia - and finds no one.

"How boring," someone whispers. John turns around again but still finds no one. He takes a few steps back and then almost stumbles, almost places his hands in his jacket to grab a gun that isn't there. He hits something and then stares with wide eyes.

Sherlock looks down at John with confusion.

"Something wrong?"

"No." John says, catching his breath. He looks over his shoulder. A bird stares at him, ruffling its perfectly white feathers. He internally sighs. "No. Nothing at all."

* * *

><p>Sherlock's phone rings. It's Lestrade.<p>

_Timothy Cross is missing. And we've found a fifth._


	4. burn

John takes a look at Sherlock's phone as they walk swiftly to the next crime scene. On the Blackberry's screen is a shot of a man's face - smiling, happy, posing - for his profile. He is young, a bit too young. His hair is messy and blond, slightly long. He looks mostly harmless, especially with his strong blue eyes. His jaw extends outwards and his nose seems to make his face look longer.

"That's Timothy Cross?" John asks for clarification. Sherlock nods and returns the phone to his pocket.

They arrive at the South Bank of the river Thames. John takes a look around before setting foot on the muddy ground. Police tape surrounds the fifth body and Lestrade comes in to meet them.

"Looks familiar," John mutters.

"Body of the security guard of an art gallery washed up here on one of our older cases." Sherlock says. He is stiff. John remembers (Moriarty, the pool, the cries and the screams and the shaking victims, the bombs, the fear, the reality of the situation) and grows silent.

They walk with Lestrade towards the body. The ground sticks to John's shoes. Sherlock side-steps them and uses shingles and debris as stepping stones. The walk seems unnaturally long, almost surreal.

The body lies on its back. It's been wet for a while, and almost completely soaked through. If he was still alive when he was thrown into the river, he couldn't have survived the washing ashore and the chills that would have followed.

It is also most definitely Sherlock. Again. No, his doppelganger, as usual. John watches Sherlock - the real one, his friend - gather up his coat and bend down to examine the corpse. It stares up at him and unnerves him, although Sherlock looks unperturbed.

Barbed wire wraps itself around the victim - his throat, his limbs, his torso, all over - and more of it lies in a small pile next to him. His hair and clothes are incredibly wet, but every now and then dark circles decorate pale skin. There are burn marks too - lots and lots of them, as if doused with kerosene, or perhaps simply burned, or with other chemicals (too many possibilities) - and they surround what hasn't been covered up with bruises or barbed wire, or both.

"Your diagnosis, John?" Sherlock asks. He returns his magnifying glass to his pocket and looks over his shoulder towards his friend. John settles down beside him and carefully takes a look, shifting clothes slightly, looking over wires.

"He was beaten harshly, although I believe that it was quite close to his time of death. He could have died of the hematosis, or not. Barbed wire placed around his body like that is quite strategic, although I'm sure you already know that. It could have restricted his breathing and strangled him and also caused injuries. If he was still alive when he was thrown into the river, then he couldn't swim or move much because it would have kept him at limited movement. These burns are—" he pauses to squint his eyes and lean in closer. "chemical, although there was certainly a fire. It didn't reach all of him, though, but the burns are deep. The burns didn't kill him, though; that's certain."

"Estimated time of death?"

"I wouldn't say very long. Not later than four, five hours?"

Sherlock stands up. John stands with a grunt. They turn around (John doesn't like those eyes; the corpse continues to stare at him with blue blue eyes and it just _unnerves _him not because it's Sherlock's double, even if something is off, but because—)

"Sherlock," John mutters. The detective fixes his scarf and looks at him. "His eyes. They're not _natural_."

Sherlock nods.

"They were replaced. Someone replaced his eyes. Now, why would someone do that?"

* * *

><p>"Any leads?" John asks. Sherlock stands near the metal stair rail with his hands in his pockets and his eyes scanning the area. John knows that his mind is running through a million thoughts a minute, too.<p>

The area hasn't changed since they've arrived. Policemen walk about, mud clinging to their shoes and light reflecting off of their bright jackets. There is distant static as someone talks through his radio and Lestrade stands a distance away, talking to one of his men.

"I still haven't solved the last cases," Sherlock mutters. John looks at him.

"The killer's good. If it was really like you said, then he was framing the manager and her business. She couldn't have possibly done it. It was too obvious."

"Timothy Cross is a good candidate for our suspect, but why would he want to display this murder to everyone?"

John huffs. "I don't know. I always assumed that they were connected. It's a serial killer—"

"No, John!" Sherlock interrupts impatiently. "How do we know it's a serial killer? As of now, we still don't have any clues that link us to believing that. How can we be so sure that the one who killed the last man killed the one before and this one, too? Just because the victims all look alike doesn't mean that they're all by the same hand. They aren't even killed in the same manner. Nothing else connects them."

"Or perhaps they're all orchestrated by one man."

Sherlock looks at him. He stares back. There's a pause as the tide rolls up a little bit higher. The boats sail past. The din of the London wharf echoes in their ears.

"What would Moriarty possibly get out of all of this?" Sherlock asks in a lower tone. He knows what John is thinking. "Does he think this is another game? I don't want to play around with these possibilities, John. There are people out there who look like you, but they aren't you. There are people who resemble me but aren't me."

"I'm still saying: I support the serial killer idea."

"What would he get out of this? The satisfaction out of the great detective not solving these cases as quick as he usually does? Is this it, John?" Sherlock's voice rises. People stare. "Is he going to torture me by bringing in body by body just to prove that I can't solve them? Is that it? What do you think? I'm not an idiot; I just need more time and more evidence! I do not believe in these types of amateur deductions. Even if it was a serial killer, how could we link them to each other, besides the appearance of the victims? And why and why again? We don't even have similar deaths. We only have the victims themselves. And why suddenly so flashy? He wants to be caught, John. He's taunting me!"

John tries to speak, but he shuts his mouth and sighs.

"Calm down, Sherlock. You'll solve this eventually. I'm not calling you stupid."

"He won't break me." Sherlock says firmly. "I will prove to him that I can win. But I'm telling you, this probably isn't a serial killer."

The tide rises again. They finally move the body further up shore.

* * *

><p>It begins with a call. Suddenly, Lestrade leaves, looking confused. He doesn't call either Sherlock or John, but they follow anyway.<p>

(Is it desperation? John wonders. They're desperate for a clue, for something to lead them to the killer, for something to prove that Sherlock isn't breaking under all of this pressure he's putting on himself.)

They end up on a farther shore of the river Thames. Sherlock and John get through the police quickly; they don't pay him much mind.

(Only Moriarty would break Sherlock in such a way.)

The police haul up a man's torso from the water. Someone screams an order and they put them on dock with a grunt. Sherlock walks up to them and makes his way through. They look at him distrustfully but he eventually gets his way and takes a look at the scene before him.

John frowns.

They've pulled up a man's torso. The head and neck are still attached, although there are no other limbs to speak of. It wears simple clothes (white undershirt drenched completely through; he must have worn another shirt over but it could have been washed away). Its hair is long and blond and unruly. Its eyes stare up at the graying sky; looking too different to be its own.

John's brows knit together. More voices rise from beside him as more men pull up different things. Two men each have an arm. Someone's found a leg. Another leg approaches from the river (he can see it bobbing up and down; the shoe nearly coming off as it floats on the water).

"Sherlock, is that Timothy Cross?" John asks. Sherlock fishes out his phone from his pocket and they compare the faces.

Hair is messier (and wetter) than image, but there's the same shade of blond, the same style and haircut. Lips are both the same shape although different in color (but that's natural, all too natural). Cheekbones are both unassuming and well-hidden. Same chin poking out, same nose elongating his profile.

But his eyes are—

"Oh, god," John says out loud. Sherlock raises a brow and returns his phone to his pocket. He leans down and pokes the corpse's chest. "His eyes. They've been swapped. Those are yours."

The eyes are different. They look as if they've been swapped with Sherlock's double.

"Impossible," Sherlock mutters. He leans down and brushes his thumb against the man's eyelid. "He's wearing contacts. Amazing that they've stayed on, though, with the current and all. The corpse back on the South Bank wears contacts, too, most probably. But, I suppose, you're right. They have swapped eyes, although not in the literal sense. Why would all these murders - if they are connected - target victims with the same appearance, until he comes along with contact lenses covering his eyes? Cross is from the last murder."

"They _are_ connected." John mutters. "Even if Cross did kill the man from the construction area, he couldn't have killed this one. They washed up within moments of each other; well, about an hour or so. But he couldn't have done it, could he? He couldn't have sawed his limbs off and dumped himself into the river."

"No," Sherlock says. He grabs the man's arm from an officer and examines it. The officer grabs it back from him and opens his mouth to speak but Sherlock interrupts and goes on as if nothing happened. "Timothy Cross was most probably responsible for the body up on the construction site. He is not responsible for the body washed up shore on the Southern bank. That was a different man."

"What gave it away?"

"His hands. They prove that he'd been working for a long time, hammering down nails against the body. He also had to grip the edge of the wall to prevent himself from falling over. His nails are cut very short and there are a few injuries on his hands. Not just from nails, but also from the strain of holding on to a small ledge for very long. It was nighttime; he couldn't have seen that well."

"But the others saw him with them working on the drill."

"The drill was a red herring. He didn't do it at midnight. He could have done it later or earlier. We don't have a specified time of death, do we, John?"

John smiles. "No, we didn't. Of course, that's the only logical conclusion is there?"

"Not the only one, but the most probable."

"What's the other one?"

"Someone else killed him. Or they all did. Or they all know and don't want to reveal anything. But with the data we've gathered ourselves and from the investigation reports I've nicked from Lestrade, this conclusion seems like the best."

"Any ideas on who killed Cross? I don't think we need to examine what he died of."

"Most the evidence has probably already been washed away by the current or contaminated by the river's polluted water. However, his skin under his shirt feels different. Rough, dried up."

John bends down and carefully pulls back his thick undershirt. He releases it as soon as the police cart him away, rudely. John almost falls over but they ignore him, probably on Lestrade's orders, although the DI is gone.

"Burned." He says.

"Just like the man on the previous bank."

"Burned and thrown into the river. His arms don't have bruises, though, and he definitely isn't wrapped in wire."

Sherlock clenches his jaw.

* * *

><p>They run all throughout London. They chase leads and Sherlock's ideas.<p>

They find no one.

* * *

><p>John doesn't get any sleep until he falls into a cab, tired out of his mind. Sherlock stays next to him, his hands steepled in his thinking pose.<p>

When they arrive at the destination, John is groggy and realizes that he's hungry. Sherlock hasn't eaten, hasn't slept. As usual.

* * *

><p>They apprehend a man. He slips away.<p>

They catch another with the help of Sherlock's homeless network. He tries to defend himself, cries crocodile tears. Sherlock grabs him by his collar and barks an order while John keeps his limbs stiff and immobilized, so he won't run away.

"Where is your accomplice?"

"I-I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Of course you do! Tall, thin, lanky, slight beard. Dark hair and green sweatshirt. He ran. Where is he?"

"I haven't seen anyone like that today!"

"Who killed Timothy Cross?"

"Who?"

"Timothy Cross!"

"I've never heard of him! Honest!"

Sherlock lets him go without a second thought. The man bolts before John can readjust his grip. They try to chase him but as they follow, a bus gets in the way and as soon as there's enough space for them to move forward, he's gone.

They stare after nothing.

Sherlock sighs and rubs his forehead. John scratches the back of his head and looks around, trying to trace the man's path.

"It wasn't him."

"You sure?"

"Too pathetic."

Sherlock sulks off in wide strides. John walks beside him. He hopes that they'll stop by a cafe for a bite to eat, not just for him but for Sherlock as well, or maybe take a short nap. But knowing Sherlock, it won't happen until they solve the case.

John admires his friend's skills, he really does, but he is afraid that Sherlock won't be able to solve it as quickly. Everything has left the detective more and more confused. With more leads come more frustration and more questions. They're getting nothing done. They're taking two steps forward and three steps back.

"Sherlock, listen to me." John says. Sherlock doesn't look panicked - he never is - but John can tell that he's more edge than usual. "Take a nap. Eat something. Rest. The case won't go away. Maybe after you've relaxed a bit you can finally piece together the things you can't."

"I told you, John, digestion slows me down. Rest is a waste of time. We need more time! We can't afford to lose it! I don't want to play this game, because there is no game. There are just some bizarre cases. Don't try to talk me into believing that it's a serial killer."

"You still don't believe me at all?" John asks incredulously.

"I was speaking theoretically," Sherlock replies in a hushed tone. "Moriarty wouldn't do all of this if he didn't gain anything."

"He's getting you on edge, Sherlock." John says. "That's what he wants. You said it yourself. He wants to break you. Rest. Please. Don't kill yourself over this. Thank god he hasn't harmed us yet."

Sherlock scowls.

"I have to solve this. How long have you known me, John?"

John gives an irritated - tired - sigh.

(You're just human, Sherlock, he thinks, but doesn't voice it out loud. He knows it won't be well-received. Not as if being human is degrading.)

* * *

><p>Two days later Sherlock still hasn't slept. John forces tea and toast onto him. He takes the toast and drinks half of the tea. The other half he leaves in its mug on the table until it grows cold. The weather isn't getting any better, with late autumn settling in.<p>

* * *

><p>That morning John wakes to an excited Sherlock. He seems to have solved it.<p>

"John!" Sherlock exclaims. "I've solved it! I've solved it! The styles, the motives - not as clear, but I do have some proven ideas - and—"

He is interrupted by the ringing of his phone. Sherlock picks it up and scowls. John comes in and looks at the message. It's from Lestrade, telling them to come to the next crime scene. Sherlock looks happy anyway.

"Oh, how pleasant." Sherlock says. "A new murder. Right in time when I've solved the last one."

John sighs.

"Can't you eat first? Or maybe sleep? I don't think a shower would do you any bad."

Sherlock mumbles something incoherent. John only smiles.

So he was wrong, he tells himself. That's for the best, isn't it?

* * *

><p>They arrive at the new crime scene. They realize that the game has changed.<p>

Sherlock hasn't solved it, after all.

* * *

><p><strong>Apologies for all mistakes in this chapter; it was rushed. I have finals next week so the next one will take at least a week again. And I hope it isn't too much, but would my dear reader(s) mind leaving a review? They generally perk me up and at least I know if I'm going in the right direction here. <strong>


	5. the Heart

**I didn't expect that sudden amount of reviews but I am glad. They are all very appreciated. I'll stop pestering you all for them now. :)) And more apologies as we go on the downward slope and everything becomes confusing and messy. Trust me, because we abandoned any traces of "casefic" long ago. Three days of continuous writing and editing barely did anything to improve it, apparently.**

* * *

><p>John opens his eyes. The smell of seafood and dead fish immediately floods his nostrils. It's a terrible smell, and he almost gags. Sherlock frowns as he saunters into the factory, right after Lestrade. No workers are to be found, and the policemen that surround them all wear masks. They're all alike, blending into one superior mass. The masked men blur and John is lost, with only his detective and the DI to guide the way.<p>

The rooms grow cold. They walk on slippery surfaces, and John almost loses his balance after constantly stepping into icing puddles and the remains of fish. His shoes are soaking wet by the time they reach the freezer and the edges of his trouser legs have kept him cold, numbing his feet and growing uncomfortable at his ankles.

His breath comes out in short puffs of visible air.

Lestrade pulls open a large door. They enter the freezer and close the door behind them. John only grows colder, almost shivering, wishing that he had worn something warmer. The blue company-issued coat only sticks to him and grows stiff in the crispness of the air.

Tanks of unloaded fish (dead, all dead, almost ready for human consumption, almost ready for the human market) litter the room. But in the middle lies the body, and John's throat feels dry and hoarse.

"We weren't really sure what to make of it," Lestrade says. Even he sounds afraid. His teeth chatter faintly and his brows furrow. It's not just the cold. "We didn't want to call you right away, but we decided to anyway. It's... unsettling."

Sherlock steps forward tentatively (this is wrong, John thinks. Sherlock is never tentative. _Never_) and breathes out a temporary cloud of warm breath that grows visible against the freezing air.

His eyes flicker up to the body. His eyes are bright, scrunched up, and his hands ball into fists.

"Impossible." He says. He points to the body and shakes his head. "This isn't supposed to happen. I had already solved it." He takes in a deep breath. "They changed the rules. Everything changed so suddenly. Why?"

He makes wild gestures with his arms. No one interrupts him.

Sherlock continues on his wild tirade. John can't really listen; he's too focused on the body and the numerous details that make this one more special. Eventually, Sherlock calms down and mutters something that sounds like "No one threatens you like that".

Lestrade crosses his arms over his chest. He seems impatient, but looks as if he's trying his best to understand. John realizes that Sherlock thinks that he's been listening. He feels guilty, a bit, but the detective is silent and starts to inspect the body from his position without moving any closer.

John observes the corpse.

Its body hangs upside-down from the ceiling. Rope wraps around its legs, binding the two limbs to mimic a fishtail (Mocking, mocking, mocking). Its arms hang down by the pull of gravity, decorated by more red gashes (this time more straightforward, although they look almost self-inflicted). Eyes are wide open, unseeing, and looking as frozen and distant as the dead sea creatures. But its torso lies exposed even with the high trouser waist that reaches halfway up the stomach. Its chest is torn open (with what, with what, always the question; it's almost animal in its barbarity but almost surgical in its precision) to reveal the bloody recluse of inner human cavities. But what is stranger is that something is missing; something is gone and it doesn't take a doctor to know that.

"Bloody hell." John mutters after squinting for a while. He doesn't want to go closer, though. It's a silly fear, but a voice at the back of his head (resurfacing from the child in us all) tells him not to go any closer lest it come back to life and attack him; give a bloodcurdling scream. It never happens, but he can't stand that face staring at him with those eyes. That face - that body - doesn't belong up there like one of the other doppelgangers. "Was his heart taken away?"

Lestrade looks uncomfortable. He nods.

"Yes, looks like that's what he did. Although, we thought that you would be more..." he trails off and clears his throat. "There are no traces of the heart. We didn't want to disturb the scene until Sherlock got here. Our men are doing what they can to trace some leads, but we don't have anything promising. No trace of fingerprints that suggest anything. His body was already torn open by the time he was roped up like that, most probably. There aren't even any bloodstains."

Sherlock narrows his eyes as he approaches the corpse. John walks towards him slowly, so that Sherlock can be alerted of his presence. Sherlock doesn't look at him, although he runs a gloved finger across the body's throat. He doesn't touch the mess of ripped flesh and disturbed bone and dried blood.

John sighs. Sherlock stares at the mutilated body (the empty cavity is right at his eye level) for a while before glancing at the metallic eyes (too briefly; even John can sense his discomfort) and trying to trace where the eyes are exactly aimed at, what they're supposed to see.

The room only grows silent. Lestrade scratches the back of his neck and removes a phone from his pocket to punch in numbers and letters on the keypad. Everything is chilly (no, freezing), but calm. The corpse unnerves John, but he is surprisingly quiet, even inside. He's more concerned for Sherlock. The man isn't how he usually is; he's acting so out of character. (It's the last corpse that's doing this to him, John knows, and the fact that Sherlock hasn't got a clue after the rug has been pulled from under him so suddenly)

John wants to tell Sherlock that it's not him up there. But he doesn't. He looks at the John Watson doppelganger hanging from the rope and thrusts his hands into the pockets of the coat he wears.

They don't leave until about ten minutes later, when John's sure that Sherlock has memorized every nook and cranny of the room, every detail about the corpse, and everything about the room in general.

When they exit, he realizes that his dried pant legs have gone icy. They stick to his skin and wrap around his legs.

They remind him of the rope around his double's legs. John doesn't think about it that much.

(He won't let those eyes haunt his dreams, and he's almost successful)

* * *

><p>The ride in the cab is silent.<p>

* * *

><p>They get dropped off in the middle of a busy street as Sherlock runs away, John trailing behind (always trailing behind, but this time Sherlock gives him a look before bolting away and John is - for once - glad for this). He expects Sherlock to apprehend someone, but he doesn't. He merely heads to St. Bart's (John wonders why he even bothered to exit the cab, though it could have been the traffic that bothered him).<p>

The hospital is nearly empty when they arrive. They walk into the morgue and find Molly hunched over a corpse, performing an autopsy with an associate. Sherlock swings the doors open noisily and the woman and her co-worker look up at him with surprise.

John gives an apologetic smile. Sherlock shoos the other man away, and he frowns at him.

"Do go away. I have business with Molly Hoooper." Sherlock says.

"We're in the middle of an autopsy here," the man replies. "Do wait." He mimics Sherlock's tone as an insult.

Sherlock frowns and straightens his coat. "Your mistress will appreciate your early dismissal. You should do all that you can so she won't keep on thinking that you're gay."

The man looks horrified. He's angry; Sherlock has obviously hit a sore spot for the man. He storms out wordlessly with Molly's concerned expression chasing after him, though she doesn't move. John purses his lips.

"Molly! Hello." Sherlock says, stepping forward in her direction as if nothing has happened. It's not warm - he's never warm - but he tries to smile. Molly looks cornered. "We need a body to mutilate. And perhaps some tools of yours. Mostly surgical, but also rough ones that may be at the disposal of ordinary folk with limited sources."

Molly clearly wants to apologize and ask Sherlock to wait, but she can't. She knows she can't, and they know it, too. John pities her but he doesn't speak. The last time they came over, she couldn't even remember his name.

It's not a personal grudge, really, although Sherlock could be nicer. Then again, he could be nicer to everyone and that wouldn't be him anymore.

"I-I'll get you a fresh body. Just rolled in and you're free to use him. He died of natural causes. A few more John Does, all unclaimed." She makes a backwards gesture with her thumb and gives an awkward smile. "Although, um, can you tell me what you're going to do exactly? What do you mean by mutilate?"

Sherlock places a hand on the small of her back and pushes her to the direction of the other bodies.

"We're tearing his heart out."

Molly is naturally shocked, but she doesn't complain. Sherlock gives a smile.

* * *

><p>John doesn't stand the mutilation of bodies, dead on metallic morgue slabs or otherwise. Sherlock's figure is tall and lean over the corpse. His hands are wrapped in surgical gloves. He inspects each tool of Molly's arsenal closely, carefully pressing it against the corpse's bare chest before removing it and checking another. He makes slow and careful snips, but he doesn't do enough damage as the corpse at the freezer had.<p>

It could have been frightening, John thinks, to watch his best friend rip a man's chest open (dead or alive), tearing away bulky flesh and muscles, dislocating bone and eventually making his way to the heart's cavity, fingers wrapping around the organ and pulling it out with enough strength to remove it from its natural placing. His pale fingers, even under the gloves, would encase the heart and hold it out so beautifully, beautiful even in its barbarity and the horror of the situation. (No, things don't work that way, but—)

They stand there. Molly brings coffee, though only John takes it. She leaves again, with that small awkward smile that screams uncomfort. The coffee is dark and bitter, but it is hot, and John appreciates that.

"So, Sherlock," she begins with a small squeak. She clasps her hands together nervously. "This is for a case, isn't it? What-What's the case about?"

Sherlock doesn't answer. John takes a sip of his coffee. Molly continues.

"Um, if you want another one it's okay. There were a lot more than usual for today, and no one will be bothered if you take them. Really."

It's as if she expects him to say "thank you" in his own Sherlockian way. He doesn't, although he tucks his scarf into his coat and continues working.

"Do you-Do you want coffee? You look tired."

She tries her best to look concerned - and she does - but Sherlock brushes her off. She bows her head down low and stares at the floor at his comment.

"I would appreciate it if you were to be silent, Molly." Sherlock says. "Your constant talk does nothing to help me solve this case. Although if you could get me coffee, that's fine too. The usual strong black, please. No sugar."

"Sorry then," she mutters, so silently. She gives Sherlock another small awkward smile (sad, disappointed, regretful) that he doesn't even acknowledge before nodding towards John (embarrassed) and exiting quietly.

The doors swing shut behind her almost noiselessly.

They're left alone and John finishes the rest of the coffee. He stares at the mug before setting it down on a table and looking away.

"Well, that was awkward." He says pointedly. Sherlock's brows gather together as he inspects some surgical shears and puts them against the cadaver's chest.

"I don't recall you even speaking." He says.

"I was talking for Molly's sake."

Sherlock scoffs.

"It wasn't awkward. She was being a hindrance." He says in a tone that suggests his words should have been obvious to all. It's a tone that John's very familiar with, as are all the people that Sherlock usually talks to.

John shakes his head and resists the urge to roll his eyes.

"John, look!" Sherlock suddenly exclaims, waving a scalpel around. "This man, our victim-"

He makes a large diagonal cut on the body's chest. John looks from the foot of the slab. It's a clean cut.

"Was slashed in this manner, and then clumsily opened up like a frog on the dissection table."

Sherlock opens up the cadaver in the manner of a frog dissection. John watches patiently.

"The heart was carefully removed, though. It wasn't done clumsily. It was done to deliberately preserve his heart."

"You think he'd use it in the future? Or was it only to make an impact?"

"Most likely for future use. But we have previously proven that this killer enjoys the attention."

John gives an amused smile. "But what will he use it for? Swapping hearts with the next victim, is that it? Just like the eyes?"

Sherlock returns the tools to their tray. He places a blanket over the body. The heart lies exposed no longer.

"Needs more data," he mutters.

John is glad that Sherlock hadn't removed the heart, though he is curious as to what it would look like - and feel - to see his best friend wrap his fingers around the fleshy mass and lift it up into the air, like a prize.

* * *

><p>They receive an anonymous tip the next day from one of the homeless men (Sherlock hasn't slept all evening, though he plays his violin from eleven until six. John doesn't complain, but he drowns in sheets and sweat and the fragments of Afghanistan lingering in his dreams) and promptly chase it.<p>

The anonymous prompter tells them to visit a rundown clinic near the seafood factory where they found the latest body. It's almost completely abandoned, and the walls are filthy and broken. The roof leaks rainwater down the rusted pipes and stains the ceiling.

The doors are rusted shut, but they find an entrance via a broken window.

"In here, John."

For once, Sherlock doesn't leave John outside. They leap into the opening and land in a mess of broken glass and empty cans and stained moth-eaten sheets. John wipes his hands on his trousers and looks around with a huff of breath. Sherlock makes his way to the far door and turns the doorknob slowly.

He pulls it but it doesn't budge. He rattles the knob but the door is locked. He looks at John and nods.

"So, what exactly did they say about this place?" John asks. He didn't read the note as Sherlock had merely waved the paper and stuffed it into his pocket. "Will we find anyone in here? Or just some evidence and the like?"

Sherlock shuffles around without answering, pulling open rotted medicine cabinets and looking into half-empty boxes. John shakes his head and looks around. Before they know it, they're pulling the room apart: pulling curtains open, dumping contents of boxes and cabinets onto the floor, rummaging through shelves, looking under the sheets, the mattress, and the frame itself of the lone bed.

John coughs when he finally manages to pull the drawers of the doctor's table open. It's empty, mostly, save for useless papers and pens with dried up ink. A pad of prescription paper lies at the very bottom, almost completely used up. Whatever is left of it has been eaten away by insects and is swimming in dust.

He continues looking in the desk as Sherlock examines the rest of the room. From another drawer he pulls up a surgical instrument tray, completely devoid of the dust (it's clean, and what more, very polished but obviously used before). John pulls the tray onto the top of the desk noisily. It clatters against the wood and he removes the lid.

The tray is filled with tools. All polished, clean, free of dust.

"Sherlock," John calls out. "Look what I've found."

Sherlock approaches quickly. He places his hands on the desk and removes the tools from the tray. He examines each one closely.

"Yes, these are similar to what Molly had. They can be used to dissect a man, just like our victim."

"It wouldn't make sense to just leave your surgical tools here," John says. "In a rundown surgery like this."

Sherlock returns the tools to their tray. He shakes them to be sure before returning to the door. He crouches down and places the tray on the ground. John crouches behind him as he examines the doorknob and the lock.

He looks through the keyhole, squinting his other eye.

"See anything?" John whispers. Sherlock shakes his head.

"Filthy. Lock is filthy, so no one has been locking and unlocking this door. No one has opened it in a long time, either. Our perpetrator's only way of entry was through the window."

"No one would suspect a man breaking into an already abandoned building."

John looks over his shoulder before continuing.

"But why leave it here? If this is evidence, why leave it here? We've already got proof that the murderer was a surgeon or someone with those skills. He's taunting us, isn't he?"

Sherlock stands up and John does, too, picking up the tray with him and placing it under his arm.

"He's threatening you now." Sherlock says. "The game has changed, John, haven't you realized that? We might not just have someone who simply wants attention. They're purposefully luring us here. The homeless network is very valuable as a source of information, but I'm not their only client."

John looks horrified.

"You mean you brought us here knowing that there was a chance that someone would get us? You haven't even told me anything, Sherlock."

"Don't worry so much, John. They won't strike here. No, not here. It's not good enough to strike yet. They surely won't try to hurt us directly anytime soon, though. As of now, the only damage they can do is psychological and..." Sherlock trails away before resuming his words. He looks ashamed to say it. "Emotional."

"The question is: until how long?"

Sherlock changes the subject. "They've got us under surveillance, John. We're dealing with someone who is very capable. He's got connections and he uses them all to his advantage. There's nothing that will go to waste. He's got puppets dancing for him, and he controls all of their strings. He knows what we're doing and he sets up all these traps. Us going here is part of his plan, but we must play along. Sooner or later, we'll reveal more about him playing along than going off another track as long as we don't forget what we're supposed to be doing."

John wishes that he had brought his gun. The familiarity of the weight at his waist had comforted him, but now the lightness brings only dread.

"We're taking him down, then?" John asks. It's just a way to try and lift their spirits, because the abandoned clinic and the chances of them being under surveillance haunt him.

Sherlock nods.

"Of course."

They leave.

* * *

><p>"Each of those murders were done by different people," Sherlock says as they walk, heading back to the flat. "They were all ordered by the same man, but done by different people. That's why we can't seem to get the upper hand. We have a serial killer, although he isn't the one who gets his hands dirtied. No, not him himself."<p>

"Now, who would want to destroy us by leaving a trail of disturbing murders with the victims sharing our faces?"

Sherlock is silent, but he knows. John knows, too.

As soon as they return to the flat, the door is wide open. John freezes a moment before entering after Sherlock, but they find no one there. Mrs. Hudson is not home; she's at Mrs. Turner's, and John finds himself sighing in relief. But Sherlock swoops over to the couch and they find a post-it note stuck onto his violin case propped up against the armrest.

_Not enjoying_

_the game,_

_boys?_ _xxx_

Sherlock crumples the note. He throws it into the wastebasket and gathers up his coat to sit on his armchair. He sits there for several silent minutes, hands steepled into his thinking pose as John makes both of them steaming mugs of tea. Occasionally, Sherlock picks up the tray of surgical tools and removes each one to twirl them around his fingers, examining each instrument up close.

(How do we _win_?)


	6. out

**I'll be on holiday the next week so there won't be any updates for at least two weeks or so. (Thanks for greeting me. I've managed to do well enough on exams at least. :) ) And I know nothing about the trains of the Tube, so be prepared for errors if there are any. Or feel free to point them out if they are incredibly glaring. I'll try to fix them as soon as I can.**

**Might I also remind my dear readers that this is rated M for dark reasons?**

**(This chapter honestly isn't much - for me - but, you know, to each his own. Then again, if you're still reading this I don't think you even need any further warnings.)**

* * *

><p>John enters living room to find Sherlock inspecting what seems like every inch of the flat intently.<p>

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" he asks. Sherlock turns around from his place atop the couch to bring his brows together. He narrows his eyes.

"I found another note," he says with sweeping hand gestures. Sherlock leaps down from the furniture and walks past John towards a table. His robe flies behind him. He turns suddenly and continue moving. Sherlock is restless as he digs out a torn paper from his pocket. "But it's only the top half. It had fallen underneath the couch. I can't seem to find the bottom half."

"What does it say?"

Sherlock shakes his head and John reaches out to take the note.

_Unsettling, isn't it?_

_Don't worry. It _

_might be all over _

_soon. Meet me at_

When John looks up Sherlock is behind the telly, looking as if he's ready to pull all the wires out and check if the bottom half is buried under there somewhere. John shakes his head.

"You found this under the couch and so far, there's no sign of the bottom half at all? When did you start looking for it, Sherlock?" he asks. Sherlock replies from the kitchen. John can hear the clanking of glassware hitting each other. There's the sound of something heavy being dumped into the sink and drawers being opened and closed furiously in rapid succession.

"I've been at it all morning. I couldn't think. I had to find it—"

John sighs and interrupts. "Didn't you think that maybe it's not here?"

"What?" Sherlock asks. He exits the kitchen and looks at John, puzzled. His expression suggests incredulity. "Even if it is torn in such a precise and dramatic manner, you can clearly tell that it's not done on purpose." He walks over to John and grabs the paper from his hands. John resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Judging by its position underneath the couch, the whole note had been placed underneath my violin case. I moved it aside and must have sat on it without realizing anything. As I moved, it was torn and both pieces flew apart. This morning I paced around the flat and started to move things. I could have easily misplaced the bottom half without realizing it."

"Look," John says sternly. He sighs and forces Sherlock to look at him in the eye. "Sherlock, Moriarty's playing with your mind. You've said it yourself. He's doing this to get to you. It might be here, but I doubt after all these hours you still haven't found it. It's - It's stupid, Sherlock. You'll tear the flat apart with your searching. What you're looking for isn't here. Our answers aren't here. I know you're stressed; we're all stressed. Did you sleep at all last night?"

"I'm not an idiot, John—"

"I didn't say you were. I'm just saying that..." John pauses and sighs. "Before you start panicking, you should realize that this is what he wants us to do. This is what he wants to happen. You also said that we should play along as long as we don't lose sight of our goals. Right now, I think we're playing along too well. In fact, too well."

Sherlock doesn't look convinced.

"If the note is here," Sherlock says. "Then we lose a chance at meeting him ourselves and perhaps getting some answers. But if we don't meet him, then who is to say that he won't try to forcefully initiate another meeting? We don't know what we're going to be losing, John."

John isn't convinced either.

"We're not going to lose anything but our minds if this continues."

* * *

><p>"Get your coat. We're going to investigate a lead."<p>

They descend the steps quickly and exit 221 Baker Street. Sherlock hails a cab and they enter hastily. Sherlock gives the driver instructions to bring them to a row of apartments in central London. John recognizes the place to be near where they found the third body.

"One of the homeless men tipped me off." Sherlock begins. He fixes his scarf and tucks it carefully into his coat. "Said he saw someone breaking into the abandoned surgery hours before we went in. We're going to visit the vandal who left the surgical tools."

"So who did it, exactly?"

"A woman whom we have already interrogated before," Sherlock says. He looks pleased with himself. "We are quite lucky for the surveillance. Last night I went to Bart's and couldn't find any traces of our perpetrator on the tray."

* * *

><p>They're dropped off and Sherlock excitedly exits, throwing possibly one too many bills in the direction of the driver. Sherlock doesn't bother with the change and the cab driver drives off, looking a bit happier.<p>

The walk up to the apartments is tiring. They walk uphill in the chill of the morning, although it's nearing lunchtime. It takes them a shorter while to find the proper apartment, even though all of them look the same. Sherlock rings the doorbell and a woman promptly yells "Hold on" before the sound of footsteps echoes from inside.

There's a click of the deadbolt sliding open and a chain being unraveled. The door swings open and a woman's face peeks out from the inside of the house. She looks tired.

"Yes?" she asks hesitantly. Her brown hair is gathered up in a high but messy ponytail. Her sweater is old and worn out and her jeans are stained with too many washes. John can't help but notice the details. "Is there something you need?"

She's afraid.

"There's something you're not telling us," Sherlock says. The woman glances at John momentarily before looking back up at Sherlock. Her hands grip the doorknob and she bites her lip angrily. It's the woman from the hairdressers. "We need to talk."

Sherlock moves forward and looms over her. She frowns at him and then moves backward. In a quick and sudden movement, she slams the door shut, or at least tries to. The woman struggles with the door.

In a flash, Sherlock is in between the door and the doorjamb. There's a clang of clothed metal against wood as his body presses against the wall. His body prevents the door from closing completely. John immediately moves to his side and tries to keep the door open (because Sherlock, what are you thinking?). They struggle for a while before the woman gives up and they manage to get inside without any further incident, although John wonders how Sherlock couldn't have hurt himself (his own hand is throbbing, but there are no visible injuries).

As soon as the door clicks shut behind them, the woman sits down on the couch right in front of them. She is tense; they can all tell that. John cautiously takes a seat. Sherlock seems content with standing.

"You left this in the abandoned clinic. Why?" Sherlock asks. He removes the tray of surgical tools from his coat (that was the clang) and places them down on the table separating him from the woman. John watches her as she rubs her forearms.

"You were also reportedly exiting the seafood factory wherein the latest body was found. This time, it wasn't a copy of my body, though." Sherlock says. The woman refuses to meet his eyes. She crosses her arms over her stomach and looks almost ready to bury herself against the pillows.

"I was told to." She says. She looks up at Sherlock before choosing to look at John instead. "I-I didn't want to, but I was forced to." Her voice cracks. She looks ready to cry.

"Please, don't... What are you going to do to me? I only did what he told me to do and—"

"He?" Sherlock asks. He leans down and presses his hands against the table. "Who hired you?"

"Nobody hired me." The woman's voice rises in panic. She leans back and swallows. Her eyes grow glassy; tears threaten to flow but they never come. "Nobody hired me. I was forced to do it. I never wanted to—"

"You never wanted to?"

"He told me I should do it or else," she pauses to wipe at her eyes. She does look ready to cry. Her voice lowers to a whisper and her eyes are pleading. She grabs John's hand and holds it tight. John can't help but feel pity. "I have family. They don't deserve any of this."

"Did you actually kill anyone?" Sherlock asks. He takes a seat beside John and narrows his eyes at her. "You are perfectly capable of doing so. However, we don't have any specific evidence against you. Did you kill anyone or were you just caught up in it all, acting as a messenger under the threat of blackmail?"

The woman shakes her head frantically. John reaches forward to try and calm her down, although she still grips his hand.

"Actually," Sherlock rises. "I think the question we should be asking is this: are you responsible for putting two bodies there on the crime scene? One in the dumpster near your hairdressers and one in the seafood factory?"

"I really didn't do anything other than deliver the tools," the woman says. Her voice shakes with panic. Her hands shake, too. "I didn't kill anyone."

"That's where you're wrong." Sherlock says coldly. "You placed those bodies there. You were responsible for them." His voice rises. "You're lying. All of this was a ruse. You purposefully made things point to you so it would look too obvious and people wouldn't bother. But that was the problem: it was too obvious, and you made a mistake."

John tries to remove his hands from the woman's grip. She stands and produces a knife from behind the pillows. In a swift movement, she lunges at Sherlock but John moves to tackle her. She manages to push him off and manages to nick at Sherlock's cheek. The blood glistens against his skin but John wrestles the blade from her and Sherlock proves her immobile.

He scowls.

"Assault usually doesn't prove innocence."

* * *

><p>They leave the woman at Scotland Yard for questioning, but they don't stay. They rush back to the flat and all the while Sherlock insists that he's fine; it's just a cut; John shouldn't be worrying. They've had worse scrapes.<p>

Perhaps John is just guilty of believing her.

As soon as they return back to 221 B John wanders off to find his notepad. They've solved two of the murders, at least, but there are seven more. He reviews his interviews with the men of the construction area (looking for clues; looking for anything, really, or perhaps he just needs to do something while Sherlock bustles about the flat thinking and being so closed about his theories as of now) while Sherlock proceeds to walk around, still in his coat.

John doesn't know how much time passes, although it seems just enough, but Sherlock gives a proud "ha!" and crouches down on the ground. John looks at him, wondering why he's pressed his face against the floor and reached his arm out, groping the dusty floor underneath the shelves on the far corner. The skull on the mantle stares at him as John enters the living room to find Sherlock standing back up, dusting himself off (that's not sanitary for his yet uncleaned wound). There's something in his hand.

"What's that?" John asks. He grips a mug of tea and points to the paper crumpled up in Sherlock's palm. His notepad is in his pocket, once again forgotten.

Sherlock smiles (a rare occurrence; usually disturbing especially since it's _this_ smile) and approaches John.

"This is a bottom half of the note." He says. John turns around to find him sitting down on his armchair.

"What? That-You've got to be joking."

"I told you, John." Sherlock almost leers. "There was a whole note."

He smooths out the paper. In a quite legible scrawl, it reads:

_the London Bridge_

_Tube station._

_Ta! xxx_

"He's going to meet us out in public?" John asks. He wrinkles his brows and tries not to think about how he had been wrong. "What's he planned now?"

"Not sure. There's only really one way for us to find out." Sherlock looks at John and tries not to smile.

John tries not to roll his eyes.

"When do we go? There's no time specified. Although he probably just has the area under surveillance. We have to be careful. There are civillians—"

"Mind games are subtle things, John," Sherlock interrupts. He waves the paper in the air. It peeks out from in between his fingers.

"Oh, shut up."

John won't allow him the satisfaction of being right this time.

* * *

><p>They head down to the station. The wind blows and the sky is dull. Everything seems normal, ordinary.<p>

There are no signs of Moriarty.

The station fills with people. They appear; they leave. They change. Only Sherlock and John are still; only Sherlock and John stay.

The sky changes colors, changes in its shades of grays. The wind blows in every now and then, but they are still. There are still no signs of Moriarty.

They wait. Eventually, John takes a seat while Sherlock continues to stand, his eyes narrowed and his vision like a hawk. The crowd thickens and they find themselves in the way of the fluid crowd, standing still among the throng of people that suddenly come at the time of day where dismissals usually usher in more people. The train is still as it slowly fills up with people.

But they can barely see anything, now. Everywhere there are heads, or clothes, or limbs. People gather round, pushing, pulling, crowding. There is a scream and the doors close swiftly. The train leaves. Another scream. The next train comes without further wait. It's as if time is frozen. John and Sherlock rush to the source of the yells, but it's too late.

The train rushes past them, splattering blood and human matter everywhere it can reach. John shields his face but there's no need; the mess only reaches the platform and the very tips of his shins. Sherlock is luckier; he is untouched, but he pushes through the crowd of panicked people and looks down to examine the bloodied pulp that lies at the railways.

Heads crowd to take a good look. John finds himself frowning. Someone vomits. The crowd clears. Swears flood in in hushed whispers, in loud comments, in unconscious reactions.

(Moriarty. Out in broad daylight. Really? To what extent is he going to—)

"I believe we've missed the meeting," Sherlock says. John looks up at him incredulously.

Sherlock is on his phone.

* * *

><p>The police arrive with their efficiency (not always in great volumes, but they are useful to some degree, Sherlock tends to say) of ushering the crowds away and closing down areas for further inspection. The station is closed and there is havoc as everyone complains and finds the whole thing chilling.<p>

But there is no news that night, save for gossipy blogs and online tabloids. Publications hush and do not write of any proof of the disturbing train "accident", and John knows that Mycroft probably has something to do with that.

If there was evidence, it was probably gone. Sherlock had both half-seen and already deduced the event.

"The victim was crushed underneath the train," he says. "He was dragged along the tracks, too - probably by his scarf that had been trapped against the mechanisms underneath or within the wheels. There's nothing left, though."

Sherlock is right. What mess of the victim's body that is left is splattered against the rail tracks, the pavement and the underside of the train itself. Its clothing is almost shredded to bits, but all solid pieces are immediately carted away. The authorities are doing their best to patch and clean the place up as quick as they can, so they may resume usual (idyllic) programming.

It's natural; John hates it.

(Most people don't know how much of a warzone London is; how can they live so peacefully?)

(Ignorance is bliss)

Sherlock and John manage to take a walk along the train tracks. The rails are slippery and it's incredibly dangerous, but Sherlock won't be swayed and John finds himself accompanying his friend down the line. They won't go far enough to get in the way of the other trains, but either way, it's a stupid idea and John doesn't understand why Sherlock even wants to bother with it.

The walk is mostly silent. But eventually John kicks something and when they look for what it is, John feels sick.

His own head stares up at him, eyes unseeing, mouth agape, neck mauled horribly under the weight of the train and against the metal railings.

John resists the urge to throw up. His trouser legs are as dirty as they are.

The head stares at him. It's different from Sherlock's disembodied heads in the fridge. This one is brutal. With most of the neck scraped off, it bleeds against the railings, staining the metal. Its nose is broken beyond repair and scratched against the ground. Patches of the skin on its face are torn back, revealing muscles and ligament and hints of bone.

Sherlock kindly orders him to go back to the station. They return.

* * *

><p>John steps out of the shower feeling slightly cleaner. He finds Sherlock on the couch, texting on his phone.<p>

"The woman we brought to Scotland Yard a while ago was named Cameron Sebastian." He says. John tightens the strings on his robe and wipes his hair with his towel.

(Have to be clean of_ it all_)

"All right. What of her?"

"She managed to escape from the interrogation room. Picked the lock, apparently."

John looks concerned. There's the unvoiced claim of idiotic policemen with their boring procedures.

"Where is she now?"

Sherlock shows him his phone. His thumb leaves the trackball of the Blackberry and the light shines in such a way that the screen glares at him. He tilts the phone and the image clears.

"Jumped off of London Bridge. Sighted by transporters: men named Finder and Jumper, respectively. Lestrade finds it morbidly funny, although he won't ever admit that. When they managed to find her and bring her up, she had already drowned. Apparently, Cameron didn't know how to swim."

The woman lies under a blanket. She's covered up until her chin. Her eyes are closed. Her hair sticks to her face; it's obviously wet. Her lips are a ghastly pale, the pale of the dead, of the drowned.

"It's been ruled as suicide."

John looks at him. He lowers his phone.

"Did they finish interrogating her?" John asks. He slings his towel over his shoulder.

"No."

They've lost another lead.


	7. author's note

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

****No, I won't be abandoning this story, if that's what you think. I just have been really busy for a while (and I will be for a while longer). Also, I've been losing touch with the story and I'm stuck on the next chapter, but hopefully I'll have more time to think it out again soon.

Anyway, this at least gives me time to do what I've always planned on doing: revising some of the previous chapters. It won't be much, only reworking the details and adding more color, etc. As of now, the revised chapters are not essential to the plot, saving you the work of re-reading them if you don't want to.

They were really messy anyway. I'll take down this note when I post up the next chapter.

Thanks for reading so far. :)


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